


Hungry, but not Weak

by Yeomanrand



Series: Jessed [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June talks with Neal, who's ready to run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hungry, but not Weak

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has spoilers for S02.08 "Company Man." Beta by shinychimera. There is some implied P/E/N, but it's entirely in the background.

June stepped into Neal's apartment -- funny how she'd stopped thinking of it as her guest room -- and paused just inside the doorway. The place was dark, and quiet, and held a peculiar stillness she recognized.

Neal was still here, but he was already gone.

She walked out to the balcony, knowing she'd find him there; he was leaning on one of the low crenelations, staring out over the city, wearing Byron's black turtleneck and a pair of black jeans she didn't recognize. There was a dark smudge of charcoal along the cheek she could see, and his attitude went from relaxed to alert though his body never moved.

"June."

"You waited for me? That's risky, if you're going," she said, walking over to join him. Not _quite_ gone, then, but very, very near.

"If Peter knew, yes."

"You think he doesn't?" She rested her fingers on Neal's arm, followed his gaze out into the city. They were silent for a moment, traffic sounds carrying up from the street below, a siren clear in the distance.

"He knows I'm thinking about it," he finally said, turning to face her. "But he's convinced himself I'll stay. That I'll choose the 'right thing.' That I can forgive him."

"You should."

"I can't." He crossed his arms over his chest. "It's not just the music box. It's a whole host of little things, not least of which is the fact that he somehow thinks he should be _protecting_ me."

"He's forgotten who you are, you think?"

His lips twisted, the smile bitter as wormwood. He drifted over to the breakfast table, where his tracking anklet was wrapped around a rough-edged piece of heavy paper.

"I'd feel differently if I thought he was just worried I was going to go off half-cocked and get myself in trouble, or get him in trouble. But this whole thing has been more like..." he hesitated, scowling, fingertips resting on the anklet, "like if he controls my information he can control my motivations, _con_ me into staying on the straight and narrow. Or that if he keeps me in the dark long enough I'll _forget_."

"So you're going to run?" She toyed with her wedding ring. "He'll come looking for you."

"He won't find me. Not this time."

"Neal..."

Neal looked up at her, blue eyes blazing. "If he catches me I get sent up for the rest of my life. That is excellent incentive not to get caught. There's no reason for me to be careless."

"Only Peter himself." He'd saved Peter's life, earlier, but she knew he didn't need reminding. And she didn't think strange old traditions about having responsibility for the life you saved would hold much weight with Neal, who was shaking his head.

"He'll be hurt and angry. So will Elizabeth." His voice darkened; June had lived long enough to recognize regret. "But I can't...I can't be mewed up anymore, June. I need to work my own way, without Peter's rules and limits and caution and _restrictions_ , and I know a hell of a lot more about him now than I did six years ago."

"What do you want me to tell him?"

"I don't want you to tell him anything. I don't want you going to jail for abetting."

She raised an eyebrow. "Now who's being protective?"

He gave her the tiniest flash of a smile, then looked down at the tracking anklet on the table.

"Everything he needs to know is right there."

"And you?"

"Me?" He glanced up at her, surprise widening his eyes and contracting his eyebrows.

"Is everything _you_ need to know right there?"

"You know it isn't."

She smiled, slightly, reaching out to touch his arm again. The cotton sleeve of the turtleneck was warm with the blood rushing beneath Neal's skin, so different from hanging cool and dead in the closet. She waited, patiently, for Neal to count his own cards, for him to finally meet her gaze. She nodded when she saw the frustrated understanding on his face.

"I want to ask you to do the same thing I'd ask Byron," she said, softly. "Sleep on it, Neal."

"June, I --" She held up her hand; he obediently fell silent.

"You can bluff your way through one more day, if you need to. I'm not asking you to forgive Peter. All I'm asking is that you sleep on it."

He hesitated, she took her hand off his arm; the time had come to lay her final card down.

"I'd miss having you here, and I won't come visit you in prison."

He gave a surprised huff of laughter, glanced again at the cuff on the table, then looked back at her.

"All right," he said. "But I'm not putting that back on until I decide."

"As it should be," she answered, her own laugh echoing his. She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek, just below the charcoal smudge. "Wash your face and go to bed. I'll see you at breakfast."

~~~

Come the morning, she wasn't surprised to find Neal at the table outside in the sunshine. As usual, he folded the newspaper and gave her a bright smile when he heard Bugsy's nails on the floor. She could just see the quiet glow of green from the anklet's LED through the leg of his pants.

"Good morning, June," he said, blithe as if he hadn't a care in the world. His game face on.

"Good morning," she answered, settling down next to him with her coffee press.

They ate in silence; when the firm rap came on the door, Neal half-stretched and stood.

"Thank you," he said, setting the paper down carefully; she saw the tattered white edges of the sketch from the night before peeking out between the gray newsprint. She waited until Neal and a young FBI agent she hadn't met finished their greeting dance, the door closing behind them.

The sketch was simple, barely more than a gestural drawing, and purely Neal. Broad wings and vicious talons brought to life with sweeps of soft charcoal, relying more on white space than line to evoke the bird of prey.

And a note, at the very bottom, in smudged but even lettering:

 _Sometimes the hawk doesn't come back._

There was no signature.

June gave a little nod, considering, then set the artwork back on the table so she could safely sip at her cold coffee. She would have it matted and framed -- carefully, so the writing didn't show -- and decide only after things had truly settled whether or not to give it to Peter.

Whichever way Neal decided to jump.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at [whitecollarfic](http://community.livejournal.com/whitecollarfic/281664.html) on LiveJournal.


End file.
